


Fool's Handiwork

by Minna Leigh (minnaleigh)



Category: Farseer Trilogy - Robin Hobb
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 13:32:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minnaleigh/pseuds/Minna%20Leigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not just wood that the Fool shapes to suit his purpose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fool's Handiwork

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leshoa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leshoa/gifts).



> Thanks to Jae Gecko for the beta!

_The wheel must be cast out of its rut. It must define a new track, one that I can’t yet see but that I know can exist._

The Fool runs his hand across Fitz’s table, brushing away crumbs, seeds, and bits of tea leaves. He reaches for a chisel. Pauses. His other hand goes to his ear and fingers a silver and blue earring that feels a part of himself. Just tonight he offered to return it. Just tonight it was gifted back. That offering makes the manipulation and disloyalty he is about to complete feel like even more of a betrayal.

He picks up a strop but drops it. The chisel doesn’t need sharpening. He takes a deep breath, pictures a buck with its head lowered to charge, and sets the chisel against the surface of the table. 

_I hate to use our friendship, and the knowledge of him it gives me, in this way. But if I don’t..._

Abruptly, he gouges the first line into the table. It resists him. He’s not sure if it is due to his imposing a shape on the table that isn’t already housed in the wood or if the source of the resistance is the tangle of his conflicted emotions. He tightens his grip on the chisel and perseveres. After just a few strokes, the rough shape of the animal appears and it’s too late to retreat. The Fool stands bent over the table and continues to shape the wood to suit his purposes. As he carves, he remembers.

Years ago, in the months leading up to the convoy to the Mountain Kingdom, he sat in his King’s chamber as he broke his fast with Verity. He followed the conversation closely for he knew he had but one shot at conveying his message.

King Shrewd addressed his son. “Verity, will you not attend me?”

King-in-Waiting Verity sighed and shifted his gaze to his father. “Father, every moment I sit here, the Red Ships are moving closer and closer to our shores. You know that as well as I do and you also know they are intent on evil against our people.”

“Of course I know that,” his king’s voice was filled impatience at his agenda being thwarted.

Remembering his king in good health before his decline no longer causes the burning sense of loss that it once did, but tonight it adds to the Fool’s melancholy. With a sigh, he bends over the table and returns to his carving. His thoughts return to the longago meal.

The Fool approached the table and scanned for an excuse for his hovering presence. Lifting the teapot, he poured more tea into the cups on the table. 

The king reached for his cup. “I also know that you need help in this fight.” He raised the cup to his lips. The Fool watched as the king peered intently at his son over the rim. “You can’t continue on like this.” He took a deep draught of tea.

Verity leaned back in his chair. “Ah, so now we come to it. It was you who sent FitzChivalry to my tower.”

The king’s cup slammed into the surface of the table, rattling the other dishes. “The boy is blood! He likely has some Skill. You can use him as King’s Man, at the very least.”

The mention of Fitz was an opportune opening. Before Verity could respond to his father, the Fool stood and frolicked in place, turning in a circle as he chanted. “The boy. The boy. The boy.” He bent forward across the table and looked from Verity to Shrewd and back again as he spoke. “The boy needs a mark. The bar comes down. No need to frown.” He stared into Verity’s eyes and willed him to understand. “Light a spark. Give the boy his own mark.”

The Fool’s communication is no longer limited to song and poem. He can speak plainly now that he doesn’t play the role of a jester. Back in the old Buckkeep days, there were times he didn’t understand himself. 

The two men at the table went back to their argument, and the Fool sank back onto the ground. It was the best he could do and he wasn’t at all certain it would accomplish anything. He’d had to make the attempt, though-- it weighed heavily on his mind that the barred crest be replaced. 

When later the Fool saw Fitz wearing the charging buck, he was struck by how utterly appropriate Verity’s choice was. He could not have chosen better himself.

The Fool looks down at the crest emblem graven deep into the table. He knows that when Fitz sees it, it will invoke thoughts of Buckkeep and memories of Fitz’s king, Verity. It will recall to his mind the duty that he owes to his king and family. He will not be grateful for the reminder.

The Fool reaches out with his silver fingertips and traces the lines depicting the head of the buck. Tiny chips and bits of wood dust expel themselves from the table. When the entire carving is smoothed out, he steps back and stares at the buck. It appears ready to charge directly at him. A part of him wishes it would.

_It will suffice._

Quietly and efficiently, he cleans up after himself. He packs away the tools with the rest of his belongings in his pack. He sweeps the curls of wood that were peeled away from the table into the fire. When everything is clean and put in order, the Fool picks up his pack and centers it on the table, carefully covering his vandalism. It’s almost dawn when he settles into a chair. As he waits for Fitz to awaken, he stares into the flames and remembers dreaming about clear blue skies filled with gemstone-colored dragons. 

***

The Fool sits astride Malta and resists the urge to look behind him. They’ve turned a corner and he is fully aware that Fitz will no longer be in sight. The knowledge does not erase the sensation of Fitz’s eyes on his back. Each step Malta takes moves him further and further from his friend and the Fool fears they may never meet again as themselves in the same way. Or mayhap they will and that too the Fool fears.

A short distance down the road, he senses the moment that Fitz’s eyes set upon the image of the charging buck graven into the table. Through their connection, he feels the recognition of the image ignite Fitz with the lure of adventure and exhilaration. The Fool feels his own heart leap in response. After only a moment, the brief sense of anticipation he sensed in Fitz is muscled aside by the combined heavy weights of duty and responsibility and debt. 

An impression of unsurprised betrayal flows across their link, and the Fool collapses forward, pressing his forehead into Malta’s neck. He speaks into her mane. “Oh Beloved, please don’t hate me. I would leave you undisturbed here in your retreat if I had any hope at all of succeeding without my Catalyst.”

After a moment, the Fool takes a deep breath and sits upright. He urges Malta to a gallop. Soon Fitz will join him in Buckkeep and there is much to arrange before he arrives.


End file.
